Fatal Lies

“I like to sit quietly after a concert.” She smiled softly. “I find it… necessary.”

“Yes. One needs to recover after expending so much emotional energy—and the pieces looked physically taxing, too. It was a very impressive performance: I have never heard the great G-minor sonata played unaccompanied before.”

Something like a shadow passed across Trezska's face. “I was pleased—although some would say that I took liberties with the andante… and the allegro was somewhat uninspired, don't you think?”

Liebermann understood that a musician of her quality was not seeking a blithe denial.

“The problem lies—at least in part—with the composition itself. The allegro is musically inferior. Even so… I enjoyed it immensely.”

“You are fond of music,” said Trezska, her gaze becoming more penetrating. “I was right—wasn't I?”

“Yes.”

“What is your instrument?”

“The piano.”

Trezska looked satisfied, almost smug, and without uttering a single word managed to communicate something like: Yes, of course you're a pianist—how could you be anything else?”

Now that he was close to her, Liebermann noticed that Trezska's cheek was still a little swollen. She had used make-up to disguise her injury.

“How is your graze?”

“Sore… but getting better.”

“Good.”

There was a knock on the door, followed by the appearance of Szep. He acknowledged Liebermann with a bow, and said to Trezska: “We are off to Csarda.… Kiss is coming. Count Dohnanyi and his guest will be joining us later.”

Liebermann noticed that Trezska's eyes flicked toward the bunch of flowers she had been given, now laid on top of her dressing table.

She shook her head.

“I'm going home,” said Trezska. “Tell Kiss to get me a cab.”

“Going home?” said Szep, evidently surprised.

Trezska touched her head. The gesture was languid and affected, like that of an operatic diva.

“A headache,” she said, with unconvincing indifference. “Please tell the count that I am sorry—I know he will be disappointed.”

“Very well,” said Szep. He shrugged, and left the room.

Trezska's gaze met with Liebermann's reflection again, and her cunning smile invited him to acknowledge the insincerity of her exchange with Szep. She stood up, her dress rustling, and turned to face him. For the first time that evening they looked at each other directly. Her expression changed, switching from mischievous complicity to something more serious. Liebermann stepped forward and took her hand in his. He kissed her long delicate fingers, on which he detected the distinctive fragrance of her perfume: the clementine was particularly sweet.

“Forgive my presumption, but I would…” Liebermann hesitated before continuing his sentence. “I would very much like to see you again.”

32

“WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?”

Wolf punched Perger as hard as he could. His knuckles sank into the soft area of the lower back, just to the right of the spinal column. The boy cried out in agony—and Wolf punched him again. The force of the second blow pushed the boy forward, and he fell to his knees. Wolf's hand closed around his victim's mouth.

“Just shut up! Not another sound. Ask me again—and I swear I'll… I'll…” Nothing came to mind, and once again Wolf resorted to violence. He brought his knee up into the space between Perger's shoulder blades, which produced simultaneously a sharp crack and a sickening dull thud.

“Now get up!” Wolf grabbed Perger's collar and pulled him to his feet. “And keep going.”

They followed the landing until they reached the pitch-black space beneath an ascending staircase. Wolf pushed Perger away and crouched down, feeling for the ridge of the trapdoor.

“Wait here. If you try to run away you'll regret it. Do you understand?” Perger didn't reply. “Do you understand?” repeated Wolf, emphatically.

“Y-y-yes,” stuttered Perger.

Wolf lowered himself into the lost room, lit the paraffin lamp, and hung it on the nearest beam.

“Perger?”

A terrified face appeared in the square aperture.

“Get down here—No. Not like that, you fool. Sit on the edge and push yourself off.”

The younger boy dropped onto the crate but immediately lost his balance and toppled off. He did not attempt to get up but remained very still, sprawled out on the floor.

“You clumsy idiot.”

Wolf trod on Pergers buttocks, using the springiness of the flesh to add lift to his step. He got back onto the crate, reached upward, and pulled the trapdoor closed.

“Now… get up.”

Perger tried to stand, but before he could get to his feet, Wolf jumped off the crate and delivered a kick to his ribs. Perger rolled over, groaning.

“I said, get up.”

Perger looked at his tormentor, his eyes wide with fear.

“W-W-Wolf… I can't get up. I c-c-can't—not if you won't let me.”

“I swear to God, Perger…”

The boy scrambled to his feet while Wolf strolled over to the suitcase and rummaged through the contents. He returned, smoking a cigarette.

“Stand beneath the lamp.”

The boy obeyed, and Wolf slumped back in the old wicker chair. He said nothing, but simply watched—and smoked. The thin line of his mouth and the enamel glaze of his stare betrayed no emotion. Only the sound of Perger's heavy breathing broke the cruel and protracted silence.

“Take your clothes off.”

“W-what?”

“You heard.”

Wolf leaped up and jabbed the burning end of his cigarette at Perger's face. The younger boy jerked back to avoid contact and immediately began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. When he had finished, he stood naked, his body trembling and his gaze lowered to the floor.

Returning to the wicker chair, Wolf sat down and stubbed out his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. Without pause, he lit another and resumed his relaxed but attentive attitude. The point at which his foot had made contact with Perger's chest was now marked on the boy's skin by a red circle, which promised to mature into a livid bruise. Wolf found the injury curiously satisfying—not merely because it represented the exercise of power, the making of his own morality, but also because of an elusive aesthetic quality. The expected transformation of hue (through scarlet, yellow, purple, and black) was comparable, in Wolf's estimation, to the seasonal transformation of leaves between summer and autumn—only more exciting. Why did poets make so much of one but not the other? A thought came into his mind, an abridgement of the aphorism from Beyond Good and Evil that had made such a deep impression on him: Perhaps there are no phenomena, only interpretations of phenomena.

Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke.

“What did you tell him?” he asked.

Perger looked up, his features blending confusion with fear.